Brenda had never looked so well
Yet after all, who has eyes for any one else when once the bride and bridegroom have taken their places. Punctually at the appointed hour the bridal party entered the room, and the murmur of voices was hushed. But when the impressive service was over, and young and old hastened forward with their congratulations, again the voices were heard—a subdued chorus of admiration. For although, as Brenda had decreed, this was a most informal wedding, though the service was simple, and there were no attendants but little Lettice and her cousin Harriet, yet no wedding of the year had been more beautiful. Brenda herself had never looked so well, and her simple muslin gown was infinitely more becoming than one more elaborate could have been. She carried a great bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley, and the little bridesmaids carried smaller bunches of the same flower. They wore little pins of white and green enamel, and pearls in the form of sprays of lily-of-the-valley, Arthur's gift to them, and they held their little heads very proudly, since this to them was the most important moment of their lives. Arthur, as a hero of the late war, was almost as interesting to the onlookers as the bride, and that is saying a great deal. Though a little against his own will, he wore his uniform, at Brenda's request, and thus gave just the right note of color, as the artistic Agnes phrased it. Over the spot where the two stood was a wedding-bell of white blossoms,—the one conventional thing that Brenda had permitted,—and in every possible place were masses of white chrysanthemums and roses and other white flowers.
The continued warm weather had enabled Brenda to carry out her long-cherished plan of having the wedding-breakfast in a tent on the lawn, and she and Arthur led the way outside as soon as they could. The others followed, and quickly all the guests were grouped in smaller marquees arranged for them around the large tent in which the tables were set. The caterer and his assistants were aided by a rather unusual corps of helpers,—the girls from the Mansion, who had begged Brenda's permission to serve her in this way. Every one of them was there, and Maggie, who had been at Rockley all summer, directed them, pleased enough that her knowledge of the house and grounds enabled her to be of real use on this eventful day.
"No," responded Brenda smilingly, as some one asked her what prizes there might be concealed within the slices of wedding-cake,—"no, this time I believe there is neither a thimble nor a ring, nor any other delusion. You see, at Agnes' wedding I received in my slice of bride-cake the thimble that should have consigned me to eternal spinsterhood, and Philip had the bachelor's button. Now you can picture my mental struggle when I found that I couldn't live up to what was so evidently predestined for me, and Philip doubtless has had the same trouble, and you can see why it is wiser that none of the guests to-day should be exposed to similar perplexity."
"But you forget Miss South," said Nora, who was one of the group; "don't you remember that she found the ring in Agnes' cake?"
"Oh, yes, but that only proves my rule."
"Why, Brenda Barlow, how blind you are! Haven't you heard?"
"I'm not Brenda Barlow, thank you, and I haven't heard, but I can see," and she looked in the direction in which Nora had turned. There, surrounded by the rest of the "Four," with Mr. and Mrs. Barlow and Mr. and Mrs. Blair near by, stood Mr. Edward Elston, the picture of happiness. Miss Lydia South, leaning on his arm, looked equally happy, and her attitude was that of one receiving congratulations.
"They did not mean to have it come out until next week," explained Nora, "but in some unexplained way it became known, and now I suppose we may all congratulate them."
In a moment Arthur and Brenda had offered Miss South their cordial good wishes. "I am more than glad to call you cousin," said Brenda, "and I do not know which to congratulate the more, you or Cousin Edward. But what will Julia and the Mansion do without you next year?"
"Oh, I shall be at the Mansion until after Easter," replied Miss South, "and for the remainder of the year I think that Nora and Anstiss are willing to do double work. Beyond that we cannot look at present."
"Arthur," said Brenda, as they moved away, "you are not half as cheerful to-day as you were at Agnes' wedding. You and Ralph seem to have changed places. It is he who is making every one laugh. It does not seem natural for you to be so serious."
Brenda seemed satisfied with Arthur's reply.
"For one thing," said Arthur, "I am thinking of poor Tom Hearst. I cannot help remembering that he was the life of everything then; it seems so hard that he should have been taken."
"Yes, yes," responded Brenda gently. "I, too, have been thinking about him. I was looking, last evening, at the photograph we had taken at the Artists' Festival—the group in costume with Tom in it. He was so happy then at the thought of going to Cuba; and now—just think, Arthur, it was only six months ago." Brenda's voice broke, she could hardly finish the sentence.
"There, there," interposed Arthur gently, "let us remember only that he died bravely;" and then in an unwonted poetical vein he recited a few lines beginning—
"How sleep the brave who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes bless'd!"
and Brenda, listening, was partly cheered, though even as her face brightened she averred that she did not wish ever to wholly forget Tom Hearst.
To Brenda, indeed, any allusion to the war was painful. She could not soon forget those first days of anxiety, and the anxious weeks of her convalescence, when it was not a question of whether she would write to Arthur or not, but of whether she could. But now, with the future spreading so brightly before them, it was hardly the time to dwell on the mistakes of the past.